Beauty and the Baller(27)

“No, smart-ass. I need a connection to someone. A spark. I don’t have sex with just anyone.”

“Curious. Again. How old was Jenny?”

He huffs. “Old enough!”

“Uh-huh. Forget that. I’m worried about me. I know that woman with Melinda, and I look like something the cat dragged in. Dang it. I forgot the Tylers are related to the Lennox family. That explains why they’re together. Ugh.”

He glances over at them, tugging his hat lower. “Let’s hide, then. Seems to be your go-to to avoid people.”

“Me? Didn’t you hide from Melinda on my porch?”

“That was different. She’s insane.”

I smile. “You know, you just might be back in my good graces with the hiding idea. And I take those nighttime walks to think, so don’t be all huffy that I hid from you. I can’t think with you around—now get us out of here.”

He pauses, his lips quirking. “You can’t? Really?”

I wave at him. “Ronan. Where can we hide? This is your store. And who the heck is Dog?”

“My dog. His name is Dog.”

“Dumb. You have a giant Irish wolfhound, and you didn’t name him something cool like, I don’t know, Goliath or Hercules or Maximus—”

“You talk too much. Come on. Follow me.” He takes off to the back of the barn, where we slide into the slice of shadow created by two looming shelves. Thankfully, there isn’t anyone around us. He positions us so that he’s behind me and tells me to be the lookout since I’m smaller.

“They’re ordering,” I tell him over my shoulder.

“Did they see us?”

I pause to savor Ronan Smith depending on me, sounding all kinds of sweet. It’s a direct contrast to the in-control, überserious quarterback he portrayed for the media. “I don’t think so.” I peek around the corner and run envious eyes over Paisley’s ensemble. Damn her sense of style. Those red stilettos are gorgeous.

“Who are you running from?” he asks. “She looked familiar.”

I suck my cheeks in, then blow them out. “Paisley Lennox Carlisle. Also known as my best friend in high school until she stole my boyfriend, Andrew. And I’m not running, just preventing a social disaster.”

There’s a long pause. “Andrew Carlisle’s your ex? Our basketball coach?”

“Yes.” I turn to face him, starting when I realize how close we are. He’s wearing a blue workout shirt and shiny silver gym shorts with sneakers. The heat from him feels like a furnace, and he smells like man and sweat—with a little coffee. His well-defined forearm muscles ripple as he shifts around.

My eyes race over him as he sets his drink on a shelf. There are three things that make me instantly horny: a man in a lushly tailored suit, muscled forearms, and a male fresh from a workout. He’s hitting two right now, and I’ve seen him in a suit. It was divine.

Deep breath. I’m done with athletes. Especially this one.

“What happened?” he asks.

I lean against the shelf with him. I shouldn’t divulge my past to Ronan—he works with Andrew—but then I’ve never been one to do what I’m supposed to do.

Plus, I left all my friends in New York, and I’m bursting to vent.

“In a nutshell: everyone thought Andrew and I would get married. I assumed.”

“Ah. Tell me more.”

I stop and rub the back of my neck. “We were a big deal in high school, junior to senior year. He was the quarterback, and I was the cheerleader. It was true love, whatever. There were four of us who did everything together: me, Andrew, Skeeter, and Paisley. We graduated and went to UT together. Paisley and I joined a sorority, and they had football scholarships. I went there because of him—like, I followed him. I’d always wanted to go to school in New York . . .” My words trail off as I swallow thickly.

“They hurt you.” His gaze searches my face. “Fuckers.”

I huff out a laugh. “Yeah. Fuckers.”

He takes a bite out of his croissant. “That’s the spirit.”

“Give me half of that, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I might even make stuff up.”

He breaks off a piece and hands it to me.

I pop it in my mouth and chew. “First, I need to back up and give you the backstory—which is true, by the way.”

“Okay,” he muses. “We’re stuck here anyway.”

“My mom was a homemaker who sold Mary Kay makeup, but don’t let that fool you. She grew up with money; her family owned several banks in Dallas. Very strict, old-school, conservative people. She went to private school, had etiquette classes, even a debutante ball. They cut her off when she married my dad. They wanted her to marry someone from their circle, but she was in love. My dad was ten years older than her and a big rodeo star,” I say wistfully. “He was your typical cowboy on the circuit but didn’t see a future there long term after he met Mama. He quit the rodeo and managed a construction company. They were so happy . . .” I stop, a tug in my chest.

“You miss them.”

“So much.” I smile wryly. “Skipping that . . . Andrew came from money. Oil and cattle. Big sprawling mansion. Fancy cars. Paisley too. Her dad was in business with Andrew’s. They were all good friends and a lot like my mom’s family; they had certain expectations for their kids.”